


well this is torturous

by youcouldmakealife



Series: in taking it apart [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 00:48:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liam being pissed at him for who the fuck knows what is not even on his list of the shittiest things about this day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	well this is torturous

**Author's Note:**

> Blah blah blah, I have a [tumblr](http://www.tumblr.com/blog/youcouldmakealife), where questions and headcanons and such are answered!
> 
> Thanks to Clo, who made me breakfast (it was coffee today instead of tea)! And betas from literally three feet away. 
> 
> Title is from Daughter's "Landfill".

Mike has made his peace with the fact that this thing with Liam, whatever it is, is going be temporary. It’s fine, it’s understandable. Liam is eighteen, stretching his little rookie wings, and Mike is thirty-five, on the wrong end of his career, staring retirement right in the eye. He is way too old for this shit, but it’s too late for him now, and he’s made his peace with that too, mostly, minus some wailing and gnashing his teeth whenever he remembers that during his own rookie year, Liam was discovering the wonders of soft food. Probably threw it all over the fucking place too, the little shit. His poor mother.

He doesn’t like the fact it’s going to be temporary, but it’s fine. He doesn’t like that he doesn’t like that fact, for god’s sakes. The kid’s a fucking menace, and probably taking even more years off Mike’s life, piling on stress that even the game can’t. But he’s the stressor and the cure: whenever Mike wants to strangle Liam or maybe himself, he finds the best relief tends to be getting balls deep into him. Liam’s surprisingly flexible. It’s a godsend.

The point is, he’s ready, he’s prepared, he is a zen fucking master, right up until it becomes a possible reality.

It starts because Liam is mad at him. Mike has no idea why he’s mad at him, but his anger is pretty much impossible to miss, because Liam’s idea of subtlety is about on par with a puck to the face. Mike doesn’t particularly care that Liam’s mad at him, because Mike came out on the wrong side of a fight with Sidorchuk, who apparently did not enjoy Mike mashing up his face during their last meeting, and he’s having trouble with his depth perception, has a hastily stitched up cut under his eye and was clucked at by the team doctor for at least five minutes before declaring him concussion free. The point is, Liam being pissed at him for who the fuck knows what is not even on his list of the shittiest things about this day.

He’s not on painkillers, because their doctor is a fucking _sadist_ and gave him a handful of Tylenol and a look that clearly said that Mike could buck the fuck up. That’s fair, it’s all superficial damage, and at least he knows the throb behind his eye isn’t a symptom of anything, but when the team goes out after the game he follows along, because if he can’t kill the pain with pharmaceuticals, he’ll do it the old fashioned way. Better men than him have dulled their pain in booze.

Liam’s gone off to commune with the other rookies and be mad at Mike for whatever, which is sort of a relief, honestly, because Mike’s tired, tired and sore and annoyed that he got put on his ass, so the idea of sitting, quiet, with a beer, is truly a beautiful thing.

He drinks his first beer mostly in peace, with the old guard sitting around and bitching about Calgary taking it yet again while the young, single, elite go around looking for some of the ladies of Edmonton who aren’t over them yet. He’s halfway through the second beer when he finally looks around, makes sure Liam isn’t getting himself into trouble. 

He’s easy to spot, leaning against the bar, hip cocked in the jailbait hustler pose he seems to think is irresistible and Mike has found too hilarious to dissuade him from that assumption. Mike’s opinion, however, does not seem to be shared by the guy talking to Liam, standing too far into Liam’s space, crowding him against the bar, Liam almost swallowed up behind him, no more than 6’0”, and probably narrower than Liam, but still tall enough that Liam has to look up at him, flashing that grin of his that’s actually irresistible, not that Mike would ever tell him and give him that ammo.

And Mike was prepared for this, he _was_ , but it was one thing to know it was going to come and another thing entirely to watch it, the way Liam’s entire body seems to lean into the guy, the way he bites his lip. And then there’s the fact that half the roster is scattered throughout the bar, that Rogers is sitting to Mike’s left. It’s not Mike’s business if Liam’s behaving like a fucking moron, it’s never been his business, as long as Liam doesn’t try to involve him in the idiocy, but he can’t believe that he could be that stupid, that _obvious_. 

Mike finishes his drink in a few swallows, keeping an eye on Rogers to see if he notices his brat’s trying to pick up a douchebag--he doesn’t seem to--and then goes to the far end of the bar, the one that doesn’t have Liam practically spreading his legs at someone else in invitation, gets a shot to burn, a beer to chase. Keeps his eyes on the beer and off of Liam, hopes everyone else is doing the same. 

When he heads back to the table, Liam catches him looking, because he couldn’t help himself, then smiles, slow and wide, triumphant, and Mike sees fucking red. It’s one thing if Liam wants to move the fuck on, hell, Mike would move the fuck on if he wasn’t such a fucking idiot over the kid, but Liam’s brash and thoughtless, not _mean_. Not usually, at least.

The guys at the table brush off his bad mood as the product of losing, the product of a messed up face, a bad fight, so they leave him alone with his drink and his bared teeth, and when he heads out, no one is in any hurry to stop him. He takes a cab home, pops a couple aspirin when he gets home for the throb behind his eye, rubs his thumb over his split knuckles, already itching for another fight.

He’s opened another beer and is trying and failing to convince his body that sleep is a more viable option than fighting or fucking, when there’s a knock at his door. He doesn’t know what he was expecting to be there, but it isn’t Liam, who looks determined, hard, hands in his jeans, the proper coat that Mike caved and got him thrown over his shoulder, because fuck acting like a reasonable person, Liam isn’t interested in any of that. 

“The fuck do you want, Fitzgerald?” Mike snaps, and realizes the anger in him isn’t simmering so much as it’s boiling, flaring up at Liam’s presence.

“You left,” Liam says.

“You seemed to have found decent entertainment,” Mike says.

Liam frowns. “You weren’t supposed to leave.”

Mike doesn’t understand until suddenly, he does, and he has to turn away because he honestly doesn’t think he can look at Liam right now. His head is throbbing, and his knuckles are throbbing, and right now all he wants is to make Liam feel the same, so he should probably close the door on him, get a night of sleep, calm himself down, then talk to Liam like a fucking adult in the morning. He is one, after all, and Liam is too, even if it’s in name only.

“So what,” Mike says, decides to focus on the closet opposite, just to have something to look at that isn’t Liam. “What were you trying to do, Fitzgerald? You trying to hurt my feelings, is that it? Trying to piss me off? Get me jealous? What the fuck was your brilliant idea?”

“Mike,” Liam snaps, and Mike looks at him. He looks pissed, which is pretty fucking rich. 

“Go home, Fitzgerald,” Mike says, and goes to close the door, before Liam jams his foot in it. Mike’s half tempted to just keep going, but he stops. Rookies can’t play with broken feet.

“Do you really want to do this right now?” Mike asks. 

Liam crosses his arms. Mike just turns around, heads to the kitchen, grabs himself another beer, because he’s going to fucking need it.

Liam follows him in, has him boxed into the kitchen, blocking the way out of it. He’s a moron if he honestly thinks he could ever stop Mike when Mike didn’t want to be stopped, but Mike leans against the counter, twists off the top of his beer, takes a draught of it, trying his best to go silent, go still, to push down the tangled mess of himself.

“You don’t pay attention to me,” Liam says, directing the words to the floor, sulky, petulant.

“I don’t pay attention to you,” Mike repeats, flatly, and then when Liam looks up, jaw set, “if you want someone to fall to your fucking feet, go find an puck slut.”

“I don’t want--” Liam starts, sighs, loud, theatrical (he’s a fucking teenager, this is Mike’s own fault), “I want _you_ to pay attention to me.”

“You’re always fucking here,” Mike shouts. “I can’t fucking get rid of you. What more do you want from me? You want to hold hands, Fitzgerald? You want a fucking _boyfriend_?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Liam shouts back.

Mike drops his beer against the counter, lucky it doesn’t shatter, gets Liam’s chin between his fingers, makes sure Liam’s looking him straight in the eye. “I am not your boyfriend, _brat_ ,” he says, slow, so that Liam will understand him. “I am never going to be your boyfriend. If you want one, you go find some naive idiot who’ll take you.”

Liam wrenches his face away, and Mike lets him, waits until he hears his front door slamming before he picks his beer up again, drains it. Fights the urge to throw it against the fucking wall. It’s for the best that Liam’s out of range.

*

In practice the next day Liam won’t look him in the eye, and Mike tells himself that’s easier. Easier to let it die on his own terms, easier to end it before he gets too deep. He’s already too deep. It’s for the best.

He goes home, finishes the rest of his stock of beer, flips through channels, dull, half expecting a knock on the door, a ring of the bell, Liam never able to leave well enough alone. But maybe Mike actually got through his idiot head, this time. Maybe this time he actually said something that stuck.

Shame it wasn’t something he meant. Seems like Liam chose a bad time to start listening.

Liam isn’t looking at him when they fly off to Winnipeg, isn’t nudging into his space--he takes his spot beside Morris, sticks close to him once they’re off the plane. Rogers gives Mike a few confused looks, ones that Mike resolutely ignores, but no one else seems to notice, something Mike should be more grateful for than he is. 

They play a good game, win, and Mike squares off against Morris, gets a few nice jabs in, takes one shot that splits his cheek wide open again, so he spends his time in the penalty box with a towel pressed to his face while Liam zips on, assists on a pretty little goal Jacobi manages to sneak into the the five hole.

The majority of the guys go out after the game, proud to have actually gotten past Winnipeg for the first time this season, the Jets somehow becoming formidable when none of them were looking. Liam’s legal in Manitoba, and ended up with the game winning goal, a two point night, and Mike doesn’t want to piss on his celebration, so instead he stays back, turns on some mindless comedy, takes a couple of the painkillers he managed to scowl out of the doctors, fingers the cut that skirts his eye, considers himself lucky.

He’s down to his briefs and a slightly hazy pain when he gets a knock on the door, not even midnight, too early for anyone but the poor old husbands, fathers. And Mike, apparently. 

And Liam, who’s got his arms crossed, face bleary red, when Mike opens the door. 

“How much have you had to drink?” Mike asks. God, they’ve been gone maybe an hour. 

“No,” Liam says.

“No?” Mike asks. 

“No,” Liam repeats. “No, you don’t get to do this.”

Mike stands back, gestures Liam inside. Most of the guys may be out, but he’s sure as shit not going to go toe to toe with the kid in the middle of the hallway.

Liam comes in, fidgets while Mike sits back down on the bed, flicks the TV off. “Well?” Mike asks.

“I know what you’re doing,” Liam says. 

Mike has no idea what he’s doing. God, he wishes he did.

“It’s not going to work,” Liam says. “I won’t let you.”

“Let me what?” Mike asks, genuinely lost.

Liam lets out a frustrated huff of air, comes to stand in front of Mike. He’s flushed, maybe drinks, maybe not, hair wavy from not bothering to dry his hair, probably ran around Winnipeg without a coat, hair still wet. The kid has a fucking death wish. Mike wants him so much it hurts a little, but he always does, so it’s an ache he’s learned to live with.

Liam reaches out, and Mike doesn’t flinch, not even when Liam’s fingers brush against the cut under his eye.

“Does it hurt?” Liam asks, apropos of absolutely nothing.

Mike shrugs.

“Mike,” Liam says, frustrated, like he’s waiting for something. Mike doesn’t know what that is. He doesn’t even know if he wants to provide it, if he can. 

“The fuck do you want from me, Liam?” Mike asks, and he doesn’t think it was meant to sound plaintive. In fact, he’s almost sure it wasn’t.

Liam doesn’t answer, just leans down and kisses him, and Mike kisses him back, reflex, has grown so used to the feel of Liam’s mouth that he genuinely felt at sea without it, because he’s fucked, he’s so fucked here, strands of Liam’s hair between his fingers and Liam getting a knee between his thighs, Liam pushing, and Mike going, because that’s where he wants to be.

When Liam pulls back, Mike says, “Liam,” isn’t even sure what he wants to say, what he should say, is fucking positive that they aren’t the same thing, but Liam just says, “shut up,” harsh, gets his shirt over his head before he’s got his mouth pressed against Mike’s all over again, and Mike has to run his hands over the muscles of his back, memorize them again. It’s been four days. It’s been four fucking days and Mike’s practically drowning in him, the heat he gives off, the flex of muscle under skin.

They shouldn’t be doing this. That’s a fucking obvious statement; the rooms bracketing Mike’s belong to teammates, Liam hasn’t been able to look him in the eye without a betrayed expression for half a week, Mike’s been alternately kicking and applauding himself for just as long. This is fucking stupid, the whole thing, the way Liam’s straddling Mike’s hips, the way he’s here, the way that Mike’s let this get so far, let Liam get under his skin, let him become something routine. Something important.

They shouldn’t be doing this, but Mike doesn’t say a goddamn thing, not when Liam’s fighting with his belt between their bodies, when he’s pressed against Mike, one clean line of skin, fingers digging into Mike’s shoulders, Mike unable to keep from pulling him in close, closer, as close as he can have him, Liam panting hot against Mike’s cheek when Mike gets a hand around both of them, burying his face in Mike’s neck when his come splashes hot against their bellies, teeth in his skin like recrimination. 

Mike cleans them both off with his own briefs, Liam sleepy, sated, as Mike wipes over his stomach, looking at him with an expression that Mike doesn’t want to examine, an expression that Mike can’t stand. He can’t meet Liam’s eye.

Mike takes a shower, quick, blisteringly hot, searing his skin, and when he gets out, Liam’s fallen asleep on his bed, curled around the pillow, taking up more space than should be physically possible, just like always. He looks so tired. He looks so young.

Mike doesn’t wake him then, sits on the edge of his bed, towel around his waist, hair dripping onto the bedspread. Runs his fingers through Liam’s hair, and Liam hardly stirs, just reaches out, blind, until his fingers curl around Mike’s thigh.

Mike closes his eyes. Breathes. He’s going to have to wake the kid up, send him back to Morris, hopefully not giving away anything too obviously. Maybe figure out what it is, exactly, that he can’t do, that Liam won’t let him do. Like Liam has a fucking say. Like either of them do. 

Mike rubs his thumb over the curve of Liam’s cheek. “Liam,” he says, low, and has to look away when Liam opens his eyes.


End file.
